


Peach Pie and Lace

by ChasetheSun2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Healing, In which dave is actually the author and gets put off guard by food, Mental Health Issues, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fic, Therapy, Therapy breakthroughs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-29 23:38:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14483730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasetheSun2/pseuds/ChasetheSun2
Summary: Given the prompt peach pie, lace, and amnesia.





	Peach Pie and Lace

You squint at the floor so as not to meet the therapist’s eyes. You can hear the grandfather clock, ticking in the corner, and internally you note that it’s off by just a few milliseconds.   
  
“Your clock–”  
  
“I know, Dave.” The troll’s voice is gentle. Soothing. The kind that a parent would have. “You’ve said it three times already.”

You don’t know if you should be insulted that she interrupted you. You’re glad you have your ever-present shades on as you run a hand through your hair and take a steady breath.  
  
“Right.” You mumble. 

The silence stretches on again. The troll therapist taps her fingers slightly on her notebook. You think that she doesn’t like silence. Maybe that’s why she went into a profession with lots of talking. The office looks too much like a living room, you think, glancing around subtly without moving your head. It’s a trick you’d learned a long time ago to avoid running into…people.

Your hands clench in your jeans and you don’t think about that anymore.

Finally, the therapist gives a heavy sigh and rubs the bases of her horns. It reminds you of when people rub their temples. Aggravation. “Alright.” She said, and she sounds weary. “This is how many sessions you’ve had with me now that you don’t talk?”

Your can feel your lips purse. You focus on the sleeves of the troll’s blouse, trying to remember what the name of the fabric was called. “….Six.”

“Are you going to talk?” She’s trying to gently push now. You mentally reel back and shrug in response. It’s like a dance, not the first one you’ve done. She’s not the first person you’ve done it with, either. How many therapists has it been now? You can’t remember.

The troll bites her lip and frowns. You notice it out of the corner of your eye - you notice everything - but you’re not really paying attention. Was it called taffeta? No. Satin? No, that’s not right, Kanaya would be so offended right now–

“Dave.”

“Yeah.” You look up now. Your train of thought has officially crashed. The therapist has a strangely gentle look on her face and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck sticking up.

“Do you want some pie?” She asks. 

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. Your brain shuts down for a moment as it tries and fails to figure out what the fuck this lady is going on about. Numbly, you hear yourself mumble a highly intelligent “uhhhhhh…..”.

She smiles. “Do you want pie?” She asked. “I usually bring some for my co-workers, but it seems that no one likes peach so I have plenty left over.”

With that she stands, walking out of the room. You watch her dumbly as she goes, and you can hear the faint click of the lunchroom door. Is this a trap? Is she luring you into talking? There’s a beep of a microwave and the sound of something spraying from a nozzle. You freeze. That’s not the sound that pie makes. Pie doesn’t really make any sounds. Why are there extra sounds? 

The therapist returns. Her hair is in a tighter braid, her lipstick reapplied. There’s a slight smudge of whipped cream on her cerulean sleeve now. It’s her Sunday sleeve, you joke with yourself, because it’s holey. She sets a rather generous slice of peach pie in front of you. It’s warm, smells like cinnamon, and piled high with whipped cream. 

Your lips twitch up but you don’t let yourself laugh at the fact that you’d been scared by the sound of a  _whipped cream nozzle_  of all things. 

“Go ahead.” She says, motioning to the pie. You only just notice that she’s put little gold stars in her cerulean manicure. That’s kind of cool. You like that she’s the type to put gold glitter stars on her nails. 

Slowly, you reach out and take a bite. It’s not the best pie you’ve ever had, but it’s still really good. You give an appreciative hum and wolf the rest of it down as she sits back in her comfortable looking chair.

“Dunno why they don’t like this, it’s the bomb,” You murmur through mouthfuls. You’re entirely cognizant of the dollop of whipped cream at the corner of your lip and swipe a thumb across your mouth to get it, sucking it off. It’s like you haven’t had a meal today. 

The therapist smiles. “Thank you.” She murmurs. It’s the first time in the last six sessions that she’s smiled in a way that crinkles her nose. A true smile. Another thing you’d long learned to recognize. Your eyes dart from her blue-painted lips to her blue shirt and  _seriously what the fuck is that fabric called._

“Nah, thank you for the gru–uhhhh, the food. Hey.” You put down your plate and take a moment to figure out a way to ask. “What’s the name of the shit on your sleeves? Not the weird-ass buttons. Under that. The frilly stuff.”

“What, this?” She glances at her sleeves and blinks. “It’s lace, I think. There’s a fancier term for it but I can’t quite recall.”  
  
 _Lace._  Instantly you feel stupid. “Yeah, I don’t either.” You mutter and look at your feet. It goes silent again and you count the off-measure ticks from the old clock in the corner of the room. You count the taps of the therapist’s manicured nails against her notebook. Your mind runs on short tracks from here to there as you count down the minute until your session is over and you can go home to lie terribly to Karkat about how productive your day has been. 

So he can see right through you. Thinking about it makes you wince.

“D’you–” You start, and then cut yourself off. The therapist snapped up to look at you and her sudden scrutiny made you feel like an ant. She seems to realize that she spooked you - not that you’d ever admit it out loud - and eases back.  
  
“Keep going.” She said encouragingly. You glance down and clear your throat.

“It’s nothing.” You say, and then completely negate that by continuing to talk despite your own permission. Go, you. “I mean, it’s just like - how the fuck am I supposed to say all this shit? It’s a lot, you know, and I know it too or else I wouldn’t have let Karkat talk me into this - god, I feel like an idiot. What kind of moron can’t deal with their own shit? I mean, obviously a lot of them since you’re here, and I’m here, and there’s probably a dozen others.”  
  
She’s just sitting there. Listening. Her ears twitch and you swallow, taking a breath.   
  
“What I mean is. Uh. I don’t know. I don’t know.” Even your usual metaphors and references are failing you. You really don’t know. “I just wish I could forget it, you know? Just - forget everything. All the dying, all the - the game, and….and Bro.”

Your tongue trips over the last word and you mentally shake yourself. She’s still listening, waiting for you to say more. And for some godforsaken reason you do. 

“I wish that’s what therapy was. Just getting all the bad shit wiped away, Rick and Morty-style. Just get in a steam room and suddenly your pores are so clean they sucked out all the trauma–”

You stop there. You’ve never called it trauma before and the idea that that’s what it  _is_  hits you like a punch in the throat. You swallow again. The silence falls and the ticking clock takes precedence in your ears. 

The timer rings. It’s been one hour. The therapist smiles. 

“This was a great start.” She says gently. “Are you alright?”   
  
You nod. You stay sat down, stunned. You feel like a pierced balloon.   
  
There’s another smile on the therapy troll’s lips. It seems welcoming. Sincere. “We can talk about this next time, alright? I’ll see you next week.”

You nod again. Silently, you stand up. You stagger to the door and open it up, mumbling something like a goodbye as you close it behind you. You wave to the receptionist and head out the door. 

Karkat’s waiting for you in his car when you leave. You sit in the passenger seat for a second, then lay on his shoulder as he pulls out of the parking lot.

You’re quiet. You’re grateful that he’s quiet, too. 


End file.
